Prologue

"He's the best damn fighter I've ever seen for his age!" Manner chuckles as he takes a sip from the freshly-prepared tea placed before him, "Hell, he's getting close to beating me!"

Stiert smiles as he drinks from his own mug, "I'm glad to hear you speak highly of my son, Mister Manner." – he placed his mug down gently and adjusted his dress gloves to fit more comfortably about his hands – "It is a shame that I have not the time to observe." He frowns slightly.

"I assure you, Mister Stiert, sir, that he is well above his league in terms of combat prowess and battlefield knowledge." – Manner adjusts his position in his seat so that it is more pleasant for him – "I would fit him to be more of the lone wolf style of fighter since he, uh, doesn't really hold well with other people." Manner's look grows shaky.

"I understand what you are saying," Stiert replies, "Which is why I have made the important decision to submit an application for him to Beacon." Unknowingly to Stiert and his accomplice, one of the guards at the back of the room shifts his eyes at hearing this.

"Yes, I would recommend the same." Manner agrees, "He certainly needs to start socialising with others of his age." Manner sniffs softly before continuing, "It would be a shame to see somebody with so much talent thrown away to depression…"

Stiert's eyes grow dark, "I don't want his depression to take control of his life." – he folds his hands and rests them gently on the oak table between him and Manner – "No child should deserve such a severe mental issue."

"I have to say, poor Ruhe has gotten the short end of the stick. In fact, it's one of the few things that holds him back in combat." Manner says.

"Things never were the easy for him since…" Stiert stops himself and Manner sees the grief in his eyes. The old friends share a moment of painful silence before the doors crack open and a young figure steps in.

The boy's white overcoat runs to his knees and the black undercoat obscures the rest of his top half. Formal white trousers cover his legs. The outfit compliments his impressive physique and his silvery hair is flicked to the side. His face is smooth and certainly adds an attractive and well-toned aspect to the boy.

"Father, Mister Manner." The boy greets as he strolls towards the two and seats himself comfortably in the leather seat provided for him at the side of the small oak table, "You wanted to speak with me?"

"Hello Ruhe." His father greets, offering a small smile to the boy, "I called you to talk about the future, Ruhe."

Ruhe raises an eyebrow in question, "I expected this to be about the Schnee family again." – he pours himself a cup of tea with the provided teapot and a spare teacup – "So what is it you need, dad?"

Stiert looks over Manner's shoulders at the guards, "Please leave us." He says. The guards exit through the door and shut it as they vacate, sending a resonating click through the room.

"We two were talking," Stiert starts, "about assassins. About how you have matured so quickly and how your combat prowess has piqued."

Ruhe decides against commenting about how his father was never present for his training.

"And so what of the assassins?" Ruhe questions, "If they come here, they die. That seems to be the rule I have engraved into my bones. Assassins do not deserve to live, so they die; if not by my hand then by somebody else's."

"We were talking about how dangerous it is, being here, and how you really don't tend to socialise very well with others of your age…" Manner holds his hands wide, gesturing to the palace.

Stiert continues from Manner, "…and we have decided to send you to Beacon."

Ruhe's hand stops dead, his cup half raised to his mouth. His stillness holds deadly as his eyes glaze over. Lowering his hand slowly, delicately, Ruhe makes to stand from the table but his father's hand clamps down onto his shoulder like an iron glove.

"Ruhe," he demands, "this is for your own sake." The look in his eyes is one foreign to Ruhe Stiert, one completely unseen look of fear and guilt in his father's grey eyes. Ruhe closes his own eyes and vents through his nose the air of anger in his lungs as he slowly returns his figure to the chair. His arms fold over his lap.

"Ruhe," his father starts once more, "you understand fully your own pain, and I can see that. I hate seeing you driven through such emotions; it kills me to watch this happen…" Stiert trails off, his eyes veering off into the distant land in his mind.

"Ever since I found you… I… I was stricken as to what to do with you. You were frail, weak, malnourished, broken. When I took you in, your mother became so obsessed and you quickly drifted to the back of my mind. I was scared, and I still don't know why… because I see such an amazing boy behind your eyes, son." Stiert's hand is still on Ruhe's shoulder, firm.

"Manner has told me about how you have grown… I wish I could have been there to see it." His father looks as though he is ready to cry, "I don't want to force my legacy onto you, and I don't want to place my burdens upon your shoulders, Ruhe. I want you to do what is right in your mind, to be the person you wish to be." His hand slowly slips from his son's shoulder and falls limp by his side.

"I am set to die tonight, Ruhe."

Ruhe loses his words, his mouth is sewn shut.

"You don't have to go to Beacon… not if it isn't what you want. I won't force you anymore, Ruhe."

I want you to do what is right in your mind

What is right? Ruhe asks himself, I can't see what is right, dad. There's just a wall.

Ruhe stares at the ceiling as it twists and turns to a sky of jagged rocks. There is no solace at home anymore – the air is filled with despair. He raises his hand and extends it up; spreading his fingers he looks at the outline of bone visible through his skin.

Between his fingers he sees stars form, twinkling and sparkling calmly, lightly. They are friendly and kind, welcoming Ruhe to the sky beyond his ceiling.

Are they stars?

Maybe they are losses.

A fifth star dances a sad waltz to fill the fifth and final gap between his fingers – empty once – and now sparkles and twinkles like the rest.

They are losses.

Ruhe lowers his hand back to his side and the ceiling twists back to painted wood. His eyes flicker and fade as his mind fills with thoughts of happier times.

A thud sounds through the building and he hears the shattering of a vase from the room through the wall.

The mirage of happiness is blown away in violent winds and the dust of depression settles once more – the fifth recurrence. Ruhe's eyes grow teary.

He cries.

He cries to himself.

There is nobody else to lean on.